Lights Out for Darker Skies
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: This is some crazy AU thing I've been writing in my sleep deprived hours and from watching too many films. "February was when Wilson was taken away, heavily medicated, tied to a gurney and thrown into the back of a white van."
1. Protocols And Procedures

_**A/N. **This is some batshit crazy AU thing I've been writing in my sleep deprived hours and from watching too many films (more specifically Brazil, copious amounts of zombie/disaster films, just generally weird shit). First chapter is mainly a set-up piece, so if it seems fucked up it's because it probably is. **Features House, Wilson, Cuddy and several OCs.**_

_******Disclaimer:** I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans._

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**Prologue**

It was October when_ it_ came. Usually they would take the victims to the hospital but now the problem was way past any hospital's capabilities. Now the infected were just thrown into any one of New Jersey's countless psychiatric facilities where they would be drugged and kept under wraps, away from the public

Where _it_ came from they had yet to find out. It was only after a spate of muggings and murders in Atlantic City that the government even began to register what was going on and link the crimes together. But by then it had spread to the furthest corners of New Jersey and in danger of creeping into the lower regions of New York State and Eastern Pennsylvania. A state of emergency was rapidly called. All travel in and out of New Jersey was cancelled there and then, imports and exports stopped, homes and business raided to find the source.

The Infected they were nicknamed in the press and on the streets. The Infected would appear quite normal but conceal a rage, murderous and impulsive, that could surface at any time. By December, thousands had been murdered, mugged and maimed, and thousands more were locked up for the crimes caused by this unyielding and aggressive virus. All those infected were labelled IC (Infected Citizen) and held until a cure could be found. The rest were labelled UC (Uninfected Citizen) and given papers and identification to prove this so.

Princeton had been lucky up until February.

February was when Wilson was taken away, heavily medicated, tied to a gurney and thrown into the back of a white van.

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**Chapter 1 - Protocols and Procedure**

He didn't want to stop with his bum leg cramping up in such spectacularly painful style, but he had no other choice. It was either slow down and get cramped up, or speed up and get a bullet in his back.

Ahead, a uniformed man raised a gloved hand as he jostled an automatic rifle in the other, stepping out into the road to mark his territory. His uniform, all dour greys and putrid browns, his demeanour, a clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows, and his intimating army issue crop cut all adding weight to his, as yet, unspoken statement that Gregory House shall not pass.

The bike crawled to a stand still a few feet away from the butch officer, and House flicked his visor up, the glare of the sun hitting his eyes as soon as he moved his hand away.

"Can you step out of your vehicle please sir?"

"It's a bike. I can't step _out _of a bike. I can step _off_ the bike if you want me to do that." House leaned to grasp at his cane, held in place on the side of the chassis, and awkwardly swung his leg over the seat. He cursed under his breath as the cramp seared through his thigh. "Do we have to do this every time I go to work?"

"Protocol sir." The gun was dangling limply by the man's side, obviously comfortable with the fact that this seemingly grumpy cripple was of little threat.

"Well your damn protocol is costing me five minutes on my work journey everyday. Five minutes which I could use to better effect than stand hear and entertain you and your damn protocols." Flipping open the plastic lid on his seat, House pulled out a wad of papers bound together by a rubber band. "What do you want this time?"

"Just to see some identification sir." The youthful officer folded his arms, the bulging biceps and strong wrists making him look bulkier than he actually was.

"You identified me yesterday when I came through here, and the day before that. And the week before that. Don't you remember me?" The officer didn't budge. House rolled his eyes before sliding a blue I.D card from the thick wedge in his hand. "I'm hardly the type who blends in with the wallpaper."

The card was whipped from House's hands with startlingly speed. The officer twisted it through his fingers, glancing back to House, checking the features on the card in relation to the man before him. "What's your name sir?"

"David Coverdale."

"It say-"

"Oh for God's sake. It was a joke. They obviously extract humour from you guys in the training process." He had played the same joke yesterday with the officer, that time using Robert Plant. Seems this guy was either an idiot, had a memory like a fish or had a serious humour bypass at some point in the past. "Gregory House is my name. I was born the eleventh of June 1959. My UC number is 26459." He whisked the card back from the grip of a brown leather glove. "Anything else? My favourite car? My perfect Sunday? A recipe for chicken curry?"

The officer tugged his gloves, stretching his fingers beneath the restrictive leather. "No that's fine sir. But this route is closed. You'll have to take the diversion around the block."

"What do you mean it's closed? This is my way to work."

"The route is closed sir." A clench of the teeth and a harsh tone. "You will have to follow the diversion that has been set." Like all good officers, he gave little information, just what was necessary, and House didn't dare push his own line of enquiry. He merely nodded and slipped the papers back into the space under the seat.

The officer gestured to the left, where a ticker tape trawl of yellow had been left to divert any oncoming traffic onto a different route. House flipped his visor down and hopped raggedly back onto his bike, watching warily as the officer trudged back to his post.

Make that another ten minutes added to his journey this morning.

He revved the engine into life before heading off, following the sickly snail trail that was draped across the road, bearing left away from the route he would usually take. Trying to suppress his natural curiosity would have been a pointless exercise, so he stole a quick glance down the blockaded street before it escaped from his view. Three black cars, sleek and slender with tinted windows. It didn't take a genius to work out they were government issue. Two were discarded on the right side of the street, the other parked up on the left. Further up, also on the left, lay a white van, back doors flung wide open, the clinical gleam of the inside available for all the world to see. A stocky, grubby looking man stood leaning on the back of the van, a cigarette perched between his lips, both hands pushing back and forth on the side bars of a gurney.

House didn't bother to stop to investigate further.

A white van meant only one thing: they'd found another one. Another infected one to add to the thousands already locked within the walls of New Jersey's glorious institutions.

He revved his bike a little too aggressively and swerved his way onto the diversion track, his mind not permitting him another look back.

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Bradfield inhaled another cloud of noxious, nicotine tainted fumes and pressed down on a chronic crease in his otherwise sleek shirt.

Doctor Cuddy had been ever so receptive to his visit, ushering him up to the fourth floor herself and leading him directly to the office. Though she had little say in the matter. Not with a switch blade to her back anyway.

"So when is this enigmatic Doctor House due back?" Bradfield leaned back onto the balcony wall, slipping the cigarette between his lips as he perched his elbows on the brick. He cast a look to the balcony opposite and the office shrouded in darkness behind a glass partition. Doctor Wilson's office he presumed.

Cuddy cleared her throat. "He should be in soon. His shift started ten minutes ago."

"Not a punctual man then?" He flicked the butt of his cigarette off the balcony before immediately going to his pocket for another. He cursed himself for having such a dirty, and now taboo, habit, but smoking was the only thing that gave him any sense of joy these days. Well, that and occasionally his job.

All Cuddy could manage was a nervous chuckle, fake in its delivery and ultimately pointless. "I guess so."

"I thought as much." Bradfield twiddled a rogue crumb of brick in his fingers. "Seems like that type of guy."

"Have you met Doctor House before? If you're here for legal purposes then--"

Bradfield coughed out a hearty laugh. "Legal purposes? No, no, no." Another cigarette is stubbed onto the wall. "Doctor House has some important information about an acquaintance of his. This acquaintance is somebody I need to talk to. We have some sensitive issues that need to be dealt with."

"Any acquaintance of Doctor House will definitely be an acquaintance of mine. So I'm sure I could help." Cuddy gazed into the liquid, black, almost inhuman, eyes of the man before her. What and who he was she was not sure. He wasn't a government worker; she'd had enough inspections in recent months to know an official when she sees one. Nor was he even local, judging by the Mid-Western drawl that tumbled from his lips. But the suit and expensive shoes all hinted at the fact that whatever he was involved in was very prosperous indeed.

He smiled. A wicked, thin lipped slice through his face curved upwards. He'll give her credit where it was due. Her protectiveness was something to admire, if not a little foolish. "Don't concern yourself with things that don't involve you. All I need is a chat with Doctor House and I'll be on my way. And I promise I won't use this again." He cracked a smile once again, waving a switch-blade in the air. "You have my word."

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**South Street Diner, Philadelphia**

She'd only been here three months and already her mind had listed the regulars. Mark and Melinda always took table 7 at eight-thirty. Mark would have a egg white omellete with extra cheese and a cup of white tea. No sugar. Melinda would devour three warm pancakes with lashings of maple syrup. A basic cup of white coffee to complete her meal.

Then Howard would traipse in around eight-forty, carrying a plastic bag full of newspapers in one hand and his red chequered hat in the other. He'd always change his order every couple of days. 'Keeping you on your toes' he would mutter, flashing the lonely looking teeth in a smile full of gummy gaps. But Darnella had decided he was just a cantankerous old grump who enjoyed messing around.

Lily would be there before Darnella had even started her shift, curling her legs around the leather seat of table number 14. Darnella had guessed she was a whore just from her clothing. Black lace tights stretched over a pair of slender legs, a red PVC skirt hitched to the upper thigh and a short black jacket. Her make up was as equally overt, lashings of black eye-liner, red lipstick, and a streak of purple eye shadow. Darnella's boss, Mr Mitchell, said she was good for business. Brought in customers that the diner wouldn't otherwise get, and they always bought something, a coffee, an espresso, before Lily led them away for a quick blow job before work.

Then there were the truck drivers and people just passing through. Though, those numbers had considerably dropped into single figures since the east side Pennsylvania had been hemmed off from the rest of the state. The occasional goon, all suited and shaded up, would make their presence felt a couple of times a week. But apart from that, new diners were few and far between.

But today there was a curious new guest at table 9. A man, slim, head angled downwards showing a thick head of brown hair, with one of those faces where the age was hard to pin down. He could have been anywhere between 30 and 50. A thick sweater hung over his upper body, with a simple pair of faded blue jeans adorning his lower. He didn't look odd; he looked like he could have been any other regular guy stopping for a bite to eat. But strangers don't come around these parts much any more.

Mr Mitchell had told her to report any new diners, any one she didn't recognize. Strangers were to be looked upon with the highest amount of suspicion. Any of them could be infected. It is was protocol to be suspicious, it was procedure to be wary.

The man at table 9 continued to flip the plastic menu between his hands, not registering Darnella's presence as she paced up to his table.

She tucked a rogue lock of hair behind her ear and opened up her pad of paper, pencil at the ready to scrawl his order. "What can I get for you this morning sir?"

The man licked his lips, trailing a slender finger down the menu. "Can I get a black coffee, four sugars." He shook a hand into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. "And a plate of French toast please." Rummaging again, this time in his other pocket, he pulled out a few more one dollar bills. "Make that two plates."

"You hungry sir?" Darnella inadvertently chuckled at the stranger's excessive order, for every local knows that one plate of French toast could feed two people easily. Though, the way the stranger glared ravenously at the menu, she could be right in assuming that he could finish the lot off with ease.

The man smiled, and his dull, pale face, for one moment, glowed along with his deep brown eyes. "You could say that." After running a hand through his hair, he placed the menu back onto the table. "I think that's it thank you."

"You want any toppings on your French toast? Or you just want it plain?"

"Um...just plain thanks."

"Okay. So that's two plates of plain French toast and one black coffee, four sugars." She tucked the pencil back into the front of her apron along with the paper pad. "We gotta couple of newspapers at the front if you wanna read them." She pointed a finger to the wooden rack hanging on the tiled wall to the right. Only the New York Times and Washington Post had came on time this morning. The rest in the rack were no doubt out of date.

Leaving the man to his own devices, Darnella headed over to the counter and bellowed the order through the hatch. "Norah. I need two plates French toast. Plain."

"What's that?" A plump, red faced woman popped her head from the side of the hatch. Her hair held up in an unattractive hair net, her face beaded with sweat. "I can't hear with all this damn machinery. Why's this microwave so fucking loud?"

"I said I need two plates of plain French toast for table 9."

"If it's that damn Howard again, tell him he can stick it up his ass. He complained about my toast the last time." Norah sent the microwave onto another four minute whirr. "That old crone can make his own damn food. I've got enough on my plate without his fucking whining about brown bits on his toast."

"Norah-"

"It's toast! It's meant to be brown."

"It's not Howard. It's some new guy."

Norah froze, before slowly turning her head to meet Darnella's gaze. "You told Mitchell right?"

"Not yet. Come on, he's harmless. He sounds like he's from around here anyway."

"That doesn't mean anything. You see somebody strange, you've gotta tell him." Norah turned back to the the loaf of bread, slicing thick cuts with a knife. "Last time we had a stranger in here we ended up with three dead folks and a swarm of FBI guys in the place. Took us a damn age to get the place back to normal."

"Mr Mitchell never told me about that." Sure, she'd heard about it on the news, the first attack in Philidelphia showing the infection had crossed the state border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey, but she had never read into far enough to know where it actually was. Darnella twirled her pencil between her fingers, glancing back to the man sitting at table 9, who was gazing out the window seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

"Would you have took the job if you knew?"

"Probably not."

"Well there's your answer." Norah dipped the slices of bread into a bowl of egg. "Now go tell him before he comes out here and finds the guy himself. Unless you wanna be in the shit."

Mr Mitchell's office door was right next to the counter. A battered old, cheap wooden door, with chips of of timber missing from every corner. She gave a quiet knock to call her boss to the door. The door opened with force and a short, elderly man stood, hands in his pockets, a few distracting white moustache hairs hung over his lips, swaying with the occasional breeze from the open window nearby. He brought a swift finger under his bulbous nose and wiped away an impending sneeze with a tissue. "What is it?"

"We have a...um a new guy in."

Old, bagged eyes widened. "Where? What table?"

"Table 9. He ordered some French toast and a coffee." She waved a hand in the direction of the table.

"I don't give a damn what he ordered. You stay at the hatch. I'll sort this out." Mitchell pushed passed Darnella and strode towards the stranger's table, while she slid back to her position behind the counter. "Norah." She prodded the cook in the arm with the butt of her pencil.

"What?"

"Mitchell is having a face off with the new guy."

Norah dropped her spatula onto the work top and stuck her head from out behind the hatch, watching on as Mitchell approached the stranger with confidence.

"Sir. Can I see some identification?" Mitchell folded his arms.

The stranger padded his hands onto his pockets, first jacket, then jeans, before smiling weakly. "Sorry. I think I've left my papers in my car." He gently began to rise from his seat, almost towering over Mitchell when he straightened himself up. "I can go and get them for you if you want me to."

Mitchell smiled and patted the stranger on the arm. "That won't be necessary." He turned his head back to his workers. "Darnella! Call the cops." There wasn't much time for him to react before he felt himself being flung onto the table by the stranger, his head sending the salt and pepper shakers tumbling to the floor. The stranger grabbed him by the collars of his shirt and shook him fiercely.

"You can't call the cops. Please." The knitted brows, the fearful eyes and the shaking hands made a convincing case, but Mitchell wasn't in the giving mood.

"Too late. They've already been called."

The man glanced over to Darnella at the counter, a phone held up to her to ear and mouth, her fingers nervously twining around the telephone wire. "Shit." The man pushed Mitchell back down onto the table with a sharp movement of the arms before making a dive for the door.

Darnella hadn't even managed to give the name of the diner to the cops before the stranger was gone.

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He was twenty minutes late. Not a new record by any means but it was late enough to get an annoying earful of crap from Cuddy. All the blame will lie at that annoying little shit of an officer and that equally annoying diversion which had pushed him so far away from his normal route that he wasn't even sure where he was at one point.

Curiously, Cuddy wasn't in her office when he limped through the reception. Obviously Rachel has vomited on something and it rendered her absent from work. Fingers crossed.

There was a odd smell of tobacco wafting through the corridors of the fourth floor. He thought nothing of it at first, probably a nurse having a quick one in the stairwell, but as he hobbled closer to his office the smell intensified. And when he saw Cuddy, arms folded across her chest, her foot tapping to some invisible rhythm, he thought maybe one of his beloved ducklings had been caught. His money was on Chase.

But her stance was too defensive, her eye line to high for it to be Chase or even Foreman. Then he saw the flutter of a black jacket, the curling plum of nicotine cloud and the wave of a large, masculine hand.

House paused before aiming his beady eye through the glass wall. The man was tall, with a short but lazily arranged mop of blonde hair, and strangely dark eyes for a man so fair. A long nose sat crookedly upon a taut face, with thin lips being the only source of expression. If House hadn't seen the man move he would have sworn he was chiselled out of granite.

He inhaled a deep breath, attempting to muster the legendary House bluster. Though, Granite Boy in there could be resistant to his charm.

"Morning!" House brightly hobbles into his office, throwing his rucksack onto the chair.

"You're twenty minutes late." Cuddy put on her best boss face, but House could see beneath that façade she was quaking for some, as yet unknown, reason.

"Twenty two minutes actually. Some meddling officer stopped me. Again." House leaned nonchalantly against the wall. "Do I have a new case?" He gestured his cane in Bradfield's direction.

"This is...this man would like to talk to you."

Bradfield smiled, the pressure of movement adding to the tautness already showing on his face. "I'm not a case Doctor House." A flick of the cigarette sends ash floating to the floor. "I would like to talk to about an acquaintance of yours."

"Well I can say Lisa Cuddy is good at her job," House leans in. "And a fireball in bed."

"You misunderstand me." Bradfield positioned himself between the doctors, his back to Cuddy, his attentions on House. "I'm sure she is fantastic in bed, but Doctor Cuddy is irrelevant." A swirl of smoke falls from his nostrils. "Doctor Cuddy, would you mind stepping out onto the balcony for a moment?"

"I'm not leaving you alone with a member of my staff." Defiantly, she stood her ground, a hand perched on her hip.

"Remember the last time we had a misunderstanding?" He jostled his left pocket menacingly. "Let's not go there again. So, if you will."

Cuddy pursed her lips together, leaving a lipstick trace above the line of her top lip. There was no way she could get security up here in time nor would it help the situation. Just let the man conduct his business and hope for the best. She stepped onto the balcony and could only watch on as the glass door slid back into place, leaving her stranded alone in a New Jersey breeze.

"Why didn't I think of that earlier?" House slapped a palm onto his forehead. Why hadn't he? He could have saved himself fifteen years worth of headaches. Granite Boy had began idly examining the items on House's desk, a paperweight was currently making its way between his excessively huge hands.

"You're a humorous man Doctor House." With a gentle thump, the paperweight sat back onto the desk. "Now humour me."

"What kind of bee makes milk? Boo bees. That's all I have. So can you go now? I have internet porn to watch." House barged himself past Bradfield's square shoulder and took a seat behind his desk.

"That's not what I meant." Bradfield yanked out the plug socket connecting the computer to the wall.

"Okay." House adjusted his buttocks in the seat. If this guy was trying to be intimidating then he was succeeding. Very well indeed.

"We have matters to discuss. You have information. I need that information." Bradfield leaned forward, tipping the desk with his weight. So much so that the paperweight rolled its way off the desk.

"And what if I don't want to give _that _information?" That's great House. Get on the bad side of the aggressive, granite, totem pole.

"You will give me that information."

Yes. Yes, he will. Because judging by the disturbing glint in Granite Boy's eye, House wouldn't have any say in the matter. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know about your friend. Your missing friend." Bradfield juggled a hand into his trouser pocket and produced a picture. "James Wilson."


	2. The Invisible Man

_This was originally one longer chapter. But I split it up into two separate slices just for clarity's sake. **House is posed an interesting but worrying question, and two more men join the hunt for the seemingly elusive James Wilson.**_

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans._

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**Chapter 2a - The Invisible Man**

"What about him?" House laced his fingers over his stomach, leaning his head back to avoid the stinging smell of strong tobacco that wafted from Bradfield's direction. The photograph Bradfield was holding was an old one. House recognised it straight away as being from Wilson's medical file from his constant spying on his best friend's health developments in the past. He knew how he had got a hold of it; a quick fifty dollars in the pocket of Lou the Janitor and he was allowed access for the evening, but how burly Granite Boy had got hold of such a picture was something of a mystery.

"I, and a few other people I'm sure, would like to know where he is." Bradfield stood up right, pushing a hand through the crease on his shirt once again.

"What are you? A loan shark or something? Did he bone your wife a few years back? Because that has nothing to do with me." House raised his palms. He knew Wilson had no debts and was never stupid enough to get involved with another man's wife, especially when the guy looked the way this guy did, but stalling was his only chance to glean information without being overt about it.

"I'm offended that you think of me so far down the chain Doctor House. You really think a loan shark could afford a suit like this?" An index finger and a thumb traced the buttons, before a flutter of a arm revealed an Armani label mark on the inside lining.

"A very, very skilled loan shark perhaps."

"Bradfield smirked, and turned to observe Cuddy still pacing on the balcony, her hair being battered by the incoming wind. "No, no. My job involves a lot more negotiation than that. And as you can see by my wares I'm a very good negotiator." He turned back and placed his hand in his left pocket. "Now, enough of the pointless small talk. I've heard you don't enjoy that sort of thing which makes this even more pointless and unbearable. Unless this is your pathetic attempt in stalling me."

"Of course not." House tried to speak with sincerity but that constant undercurrent of sarcasm still cut through despite his best attempts. "I just wanna know who I am talking to here."

"It's not important _who _I am. It's just important for you to know that I want to help your friend. But I can't help him if I don't know where is." Bradfield grasped the switch blade in his pocket. This stubbled interviewee was playing hard ball and he had no time for such petty games. He needed to find this James Wilson before anyone else could lay claim to him and if he needed to use strong persuasive techniques, then so be it.

House adjusted his seat, swinging his legs under the desk, a safe vantage point to rub his aching thigh. If Wilson was here he'd be listening to a not so enthralling semi-lecture on how the increased pain was psychosomatic. House had to chuckle inwardly at the sad irony that if Wilson was here, he wouldn't have the increased pain to contend with. But the irony was of little consequence to him at the moment as the pain was excruciating. "I haven't seen him in months."

"Really? I was under the impression he was your best friend."

House grimaced. Talk about probing a sore point. "He is." The dull ache had turned to a searing pulse.

"And you don't know where he is?" Bradfield slapped the photograph down onto the desk hard, the items upon the it shuddering under the force. "I'm finding that very hard to believe, Doctor House."

"Oh I know where he is. Locked up in some lunatic rest home near Philadelphia. So if you're looking for him you'll find him there." House flicked the photograph from the desk, laying it in between his fingers for Bradfield to take back into his possession. He couldn't bare to stare at that face any longer. "Not that you'll get much out of him."

"Well this is interesting." Bradfield whisked the photograph out of House's fingertips and carefully shuffled it into the inside pocket of his suited jacket.

House raised his eyebrow, surprised at the wave of smugness that washed Granite Boy's already smug enough face.

"Seems I know more about your friend than you do." Bradfield smiled and fastened the two bottom buttons of his jacket and straightened it out with a quick tug. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time Doctor House. Looks like I won't be needing your help."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" House narrowed his gaze. He wasn't sure if Granite Boy was truly leaving or if this was some subversive negotiating tactic.

"I mean what I say. You are of little use to me. You don't have information that I don't already know." Bradfield lazily wandered to the balcony door and slid open the partition, allowing a frosty looking Cuddy to step in from the balcony. "So I'll be on my way. Thank you for help Doctor House. And for your hospitality Doctor Cuddy."

House rose from his chair with urgency. Granite Boy wasn't going to get away that easily. "If I didn't have any new information then you already knew where Wilson was. Why come to me and ask questions about his whereabouts if you already knew?"

Cuddy placed a hand on House's arm. "Leave it House. Let the man be on his way."

"You're a clever man Doctor House." Bradfield nodded and slipped a cigarette from his top pocket. "You work it out."

.

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**South Street Diner, Philadelphia**

"So this is what you guys get paid for? Letting crazy people run around on the street!" Norah wildly waved her spatula in the air with purpose, sending slivers of raw egg flying into the air around her. "You sons of a bitches are meant to keep us safe."

"Mrs Michaels will you please sit down?" A weary officer gestured to one of the leathered chairs nearby. "The more information we can get now, the quicker we can investigate." Agent Saltzman ran a dry, cracked finger across his eyebrow, wiping away a rogue droplet of sweat from his haggard, hang-dog face. The morning had not gone well and this ranting cook was not making the situation any better, nor was it assisting in helping his beautifully blooming migraine to graciously fuck off. He took a gulp of black coffee and grimaced at the distinct lack of sweetener.

"If you boneheads were doing your job properly then you wouldn't need to be here." The spatula came soaring down to meet the counter top. A puddle of yellow gooey liquid pooled onto the metal beneath.

"I understand your concern." _And I want to shove that spatula down your throat. _"Now if we can get a description of the man then we can start making progress."

A angry, bull like wheeze blew from Norah's nostrils. That one last wheeze calming her bubbling anger, for now. "I didn't get a great look at him."

"That's fine. Just tell me what you saw." _Please, so I can get the hell outta here. _Saltzman would have preferred a couple of Advil, possibly a giant duvet, maybe some warm, comforting pillows instead of sitting in a crummy diner at nine the morning taking a statement from a woman who looked like the closest living representation to William Shatner in a dress. But he can't have everything. Smoothly, he slides a black book from his pocket and pen from the other.

"Well Darnella over there came over with the order. French toast and some coffee. She told me it was some strange guy." Norah scratched aggressively beneath her hair net. "Didn't get a good look at him until she told me Mitchell was gonna have a word with him. I just remember him being pretty tall. I mean, hell, I've gotta damn dog taller than Mitchell, but he was pretty tall."

"How tall? Approximately."

Norah puffed out her cheeks dramatically. "I'd say... 'Bout six feet tall. Probably no taller than that. Definitely taller than your average guy."

"Okay." Saltzman pushed the pen top to his lips. Nothing like a wonderfully vague description to go on. "Notice anything else? Hair colour, eye colour? What he was wearing?"

"Um...Oh Darnella mentioned he sounded local. That's why she weren't so bothered about him. Just thought he was a guy passing through or something. He had dark kinda hair. Brown I think. Apart from that I got nothing. I mean he ran like the damn wind when Mitchell said he called the cops."

Saltzman pushed his book back into his pocket, smiling at the flustered cook. He wasn't sure whether he was truly thankful for the helpful information or thankful for the fact she had nothing more to say. He decided on the latter as the former betrayed the meaning of 'helpful information'. He might as well of surmised that they would looking for a 'normal looking man' on his own. Would have saved him the trouble of talking to anyone with this god forsaken headache. "Thank you for your help Mrs Michaels. I'm sure your information will be of help to us."

"Well I damn well hope so." Norah opened up the palm of her hand. "By the way, that'll be two dollars fifty for the coffee."

Agent Reed had a far more prosperous discussion with Darnella and Mr Mitchell. Both giving far more detail than the Norah's fuzzy outline of the suspect.

"Do you remember what he was wearing? Anything distinctive?"

Darnella shook her head. "Not really. Just an old pair of jeans, ya know, kinda faded. Old looking. Like they'd been washed a thousand times." Next to her, Mitchell merely nodded. "Yeah and um...just a plain sweater and a black coat. I dunno. He just looked like a guy, ya know?"

Agent Reed placed a comforting arm on Darnella's shoulder. "I know this is difficult for you. It's difficult for everybody but you did the right thing calling us. And thanks to you two we have a pretty good description of the guy."

"But what if he's dangerous and we've let him go?" Darnella rubbed her tired, stinging eyes.

"Listen, we get a lot of these calls. Usually, they turn out to be nothing. Just some travelling soul wandering through. I'm sure that's the case here so don't worry about it. We'll try and keep you informed of what's happening but I just advise you to work as normal. Don't consume yourself with it. This is our job now and I promise that we'll do our best." Reed caught the glimmer of Saltzman diligently polished shoes from the corner of his eyes. Seems his partner's interrogation of the imposing looking cook was over and obviously fruitless judging by the weary gait of the approaching feet.

"Thank you." Darnella squeezed her apron in an attempt to qualm her quivering hands.

"Take care." Reed flashed a smile that Hollywood would be proud of. Saltzman would regularly joke saying Reed had missed his calling as a model advertising toothpaste, but Reed guessed Saltzman was just jealous of the fact that he didn't look like a bastard love child of Droopy Dawg and Richard Nixon.

Saltzman was scuffing the floor tiles with agitation when Reed paced up to his side. "You get anything?" Saltzman nonchalantly stuck a little finger in his ear, rummaging for whatever hidden gems may be lurking in his ear hole.

"Well the girl said the guy was tall. On the slim side,. She couldn't guess the age. Somewhere between 30 and mid-40s. Said he had one of those weird faces that you can't really tell with you know?."

"Yeah."

"Brown eyes. Brown hair. Wearing jeans, a sweater and a jacket. Probably local she said. Apart from that it's pretty slim pickings." Reed shoved his own black book out of sight. "Mitchell couldn't add much to what the girl said. Just said the guy wasn't that strong and his hair was pretty thick. And the that the guy freaked out when he said he was gonna call the cops."

Both men strolled outside into the chilly morning air, their breaths curling up into the sky.

Reed reached for his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a loose cigarette and a lighter.

"Hey! I thought you quit those things."

"I'm a social smoker." Reed attempted the lighter but the stiff breeze sent the flame flickering away as fast as it came.

"This is social?"

"I'm outside aren't I? I'm with a person."

"Shit." Saltzman coughed as a bubble of air caught itself in his throat. "If this is social for you then I fucking feel for you. And your wife."

"Your sympathy is noted." Reed gave up on the seventh attempt of making a flame. Even cupping the lighter within his hands wasn't working. He stuffed the lame lighter back into his pocket along with the cigarette, now relieved of its duties. "So what d'ya think? What have we got here?"

Saltzman hummed, running a hand across his unshaven cheek, before massaging his aching temple. "I dunno. Something doesn't fit. If he was just a regular guy why run? Why didn't he have his cards on him?"

"That's what I was thinking. You reckon he's gotta record?"

"Or worse."

Reed paused, registering the solemn look on his partner's face. "You think-?"

"Well we know three people are missing from that place 30 miles west of here."

"Brookheads?"

Saltzman waved a hand; a empty gesticulation. "Whatever it's called. What if he's from there?"

"Seriously, Sean. You think he's one of the infected escapees?"

"I'm just saying don't rule it out." Saltzman whipped a key from his back pocket, jabbing a finger on the fob button, unlocking the doors to the car.

"But if that's the case then-"

"Then we have a serious problem."


	3. Travelling Light

_This was originally one longer chapter. But I split it up into two separate slices just for clarity's sake. Second part of what would have been one chatper along with Chapter 2. **Wilson makes his way to Princeton but someone's on his trail****.**_

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans._

* * *

.

He'd bolted from that diner so hard that the last half hour had been a blur. A rush. One long stream of flitting colours bathed in an orange sunrise.

He had followed the noise of the traffic, hoping the harsh thrums of auto mobile engines would lead him to the Interstate where thousands of vehicles would be heading towards his destination. Hopefully he could hitch a ride. Even in these dark and weary times, a little piece of him hoped that someone would take pity for a lonely stranger on the road, maybe take him further North, even if only a few miles. He just wanted to keep moving. Keep moving North, keep moving and keep hoping, keep moving away from where he had been.

Because he couldn't go back there again. Never.

S- Front Street, a great hulking sign blared out in front of him in enormous white lettering. The sun was rising above his right shoulder meaning he was travelling North. Sort of. If only he could go a little faster and get to the next rest stop or get to the main road.

He was running hard, knees jabbing upwards into the air, his arms cutting through sticky, morning atmosphere, his body running on a combination of sheer adrenaline and pure desperation. Taking a look back he could see no one was following him. Only himself and a young woman walking a dog dared to venture out on such a morning but his mind urged him on through the grim pain in his over-worked legs, though the heavy, crackling breaths that pressured his chest, through pain of stinging beads of sweat that seared into his eyes.

Because he much prefer this pain then the pain of going back there again.

.

* * *

.

"Come on man. Would you not do that in the car?" Saltzman reached over and flicked the lit cigarette from Reed's lips, sending it toppling out the window.

"That was my last one."

"Forever, I hope. I don't wanna walk around with a partner who smells like a friggin' ashtray." Saltzman flicked a button on the steering wheel and the windows of the car slid closed.

Reed cupped an espresso from the cup holder in between the seats, taking a long sip of the delicious, sweet caffeine. Just the sort of kick he needed this morning. He glanced at Saltzman's stern, drooping face, wondering if that's what twenty years in the force does to you or whether there were other contributing factors. Reed could only pray that in twenty five years time his cheeks were still firmly on the upper half of his face. "So how far is this place?"

"Not far. 'Bout a half hour."

"I thought you weren't allowed to go to these places."

"We got special dispensation. It is for a federal investigation after all." Saltzman sped up a little, overtaking a luxurious looking R.V on the outside lane. "I called Williams before. Said he'd call ahead for us. We should be allowed in."

Reed paused before pulling a mirror from his inside pocket, and carefully adjusting the strands of rogue hair that his gel had skimmed over. "I hope we don't die."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Saltzman flicked a look of disbelief, his sagging eyelids masking his exasperation at his partner's inappropriate comment.

"People in there have killed other people. That's why they are there." Reed wasn't finished with his do just yet. He produced a comb from the opposite pocket and began running it through the crown of his thick, jet black hair.

"No. They're there for their own safety and ours. Not all of them are murders." Saltzman stuttered, searching for the right word to describe the inhabitants of Brookheads. "They are...unfortunate."

"Since when did you get all soft and sympathetic?"

"I...you know...just shut up all right. We're not too far away anyway. You just sit there..." Saltzman slapped a hand through the younger man's hair, "...and fucking play with your damn hair or whatever the hell you're doing."

.

* * *

.

South Front Street had morphed into North Front Street by the time his body had gone numb, the pain now radiating through every limb, tendon and muscle in his entire body. North Front Street then morphed into Race Street. By that time he was ready to fall to his knees and heave all of his innards, outwards.

He leaned heavily against the wall, a river of sweat cascading down his back, his already unkempt and unwashed hair now smelling acrid and rancid from his exertions. A gulp of air followed by another helped the pain in his burning lungs recede but only slightly. His back was now spasming outrageously along with his calves and knotted muscle lined up across his shoulders. He took the bottom of his coat and ran it across his forehead, pulling away a pool of sweat and a patch of grubby dirt. Using his sleeve, he wiped the rest of his face, bringing away days of dust and dirt.

He began to stagger his way along to where North Front Street and Race Street merged. He could hear the Interstate traffic whizzing by above his head, cutting through the other thumping noise of his own blood pumping in his ears.

At first, he thought it was a mirage, a devilish, sickening trick of the mind, but the more he wandered towards the smell of fresh toast and grease, the clearer it became. Another diner, this time with streams of cars parked outside, all the owners inside munching on their own fuel for the day. The first car he spotted was a red Buick, parked up to the left side of the parking lot, encircled by a dangerous looking Hummer and a sleek blue Chevrolet. The engine was running and a bouffant headed driver sat behind the wheel, her head bowed downwards as she fiddled with something beneath the line of the dashboard.

Wilson headed towards the Buick, straightening up his hair and taking one last swipe of his face to try and look presentable. The woman was still looking down at the floor as he approached the window. He inhaled a deep breath before taking the plunge and gently knocking a finger on the window.

The woman jolted in her seat, her head slowly tilting upwards to reveal a crumpled, crinkling old face. A pair of thick-set glasses hung upon a slim, pointed nose, though they seemed to be doing little for her sight as she squinted through the lenses. The car window scrolled down slowly and the wizened old face poked into the fresh air. "What?"

He needed a lie, a plot line, a story. Something that was better then 'Hi, I've just escaped from an asylum. I need you to take me over the border.' "Hi...um." The woman stared at him expectantly, pushing her glasses back from the tip of her nose. "I was wondering if...um I could...maybe hitch a ride." He clenched his teeth awaiting either a quick rebuff or a piercing scream for attention.

But he got neither. Instead the woman inspected him from head to toe. "You got any cards on ya?"

"That's the thing. I was out with a few guys last night. I got mugged or something. Took my wallet, everything. That's why I need to get home." He inwardly cringed. He was lying, lying to an old woman, taking advantage of her seemingly generous nature. He'd stooped low before but this was a new level of low.

"Well son, I dunno where you wanna go. Stanhope's where I'm going, so if you wanting to go South then I can't help you."

"No, no, no. I'm going to Princeton. I live in Princeton."

The woman groaned. "I dunno. I don't really give strangers rides."

"Please. I'm begging you. I'll give you all the money I've got for your trouble. I just need to get to Princeton."

"All right. Get in. But don't get any crap on my seats. This thing has just been re-upholstered." She reached over to the passenger and yanked up the stiff lock on the door.

Wilson literally dived into the car, his body desperate for respite from the pain that radiated throughout his body. Loudly, he sighed as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest and clicked it into place.

"You look like you could use a drink." A rummage in the glove compartment produced a warm bottle of whisky. The woman winked, tossing the bottle into Wilson's lap. "Nothing like a bit of a kick in the morning."

"I'm fine thank you." He tucked the bottle in-between two newspapers on the dashboard. "Do you have any water?"

"Water? Hell, no." The Buick kicked into life with a cough and a splutter. "I got soda in the back seat."

"Great. Thanks." He pulled a cool can of Diet Coke from a plastic bag that lay on the floor behind the driver's seat. The fizzy liquid did more than enough to quench his thirst and it didn't take long for the warm spectre of sleep to whisk him away into unconsciousness.

.

* * *

.

Saltzman had expected the place to be a little more cold and clinical, a little more whitewashed, a little more bleached out but the towering, grey, Gothic building was far more like his original assumption of what an asylum would look like. Two armed officers stood at either side of a blackened entrance, their heads not even glancing to see the two men approach from the left hand side of the parking lot.

Reed yanked a leaf from a withering tree that stood nearby, crumpling the crisping foliage between his fingers. "So where's our meeting party?"

"Are you expecting a red carpet affair?" Saltzman flashed his badge at the guarding officers. A gruff grunt and an officer shot out an arm to push the door ajar.

"The reception's on the left." The chunky officer nodded to the inside.

Both men slipped through the door, slowly treading their feet gently across the floor, eager not to break the nervous silence. The foyer was cavernous, the décor mismatched and worn. Red and white floor tiling were combined with mint green painted walls. Battered wooden chairs lined the walls on either side of the door. To the right were a set of double doors, the handle padlocked, the glass masked with mesh. The reception the officer had referred was to the left. Two lonely looking nurses, one male and one female, sat behind a dusty brown desk, both of them chewing languidly on the end of their respective pencils.

Reed leaned into Saltzman's shoulder and whispered. "What's the point in having a reception if there are never any visitors?"

"Do you ever stop asking stupid questions?" Saltzman shrugged Reed from his shoulder and padded towards the reception, his badge at the ready in his hand. "Good morning."

A fuzzy shock of red hair rose upwards to reveal and young, freckled face. A pair of glazed blue saucers eyed Saltzman up with contempt. "Yeah?"

"I'm Agent Saltzman. This is my colleague Agent Reed. We have an appointment with a..." He searched through his notes for the name he needed. "Doctor Holt."

"Doctor Holt is on a break."

Saltzman sighed. He'd already had his idiocy fill for today. He was in no mood for any more. "Listen son, don't fuck me around. We wanna see Doctor Holt now. If not, then I'll arrest for you obstructing a Federal Investigation. And I know a boy like you would be very popular in prison."

Intimidation never failed to get results. Doctor Holt was out from her office in seconds, shaking hands and doling out smiles, apologising profusely for her subordinates' behaviour before escorting both Reed and Saltzman into her office.

She carefully took a seat behind a hard, walnut desk, the top adorned with pens and folders scattered around in a random fashion. "I'm sorry about the mess gentlemen. As you know already, we've had a busy couple of days."

"It's no problem." Reed flashed a flirtational smile and rested himself on a cream sofa that sat up against the wall.

"I assume our boss told you why we're here?" Saltzman pulled a chair from the opposite wall and took a seat.

"Yes, yes he did. You want some information on the patients who escaped." Doctor Holt reached into a drawer to her left. "I got my assistant to pull up their files for you. I didn't have time to get them photocopied so there is only one copy of each. Sorry." Three blue files landed on the desk with a mute thud. "Three males. Two Caucasian. One African-American. Feel free to take a look."

"Well the man we are looking for is a Caucasian male so we can discount one already."

Holt slipped a large file from the desk and dumped it onto the floor, leaving one bulging file and another, much slimmer, file next to it. "There you go gentlemen."

Saltzman reached over and grasped both files, tossing the larger one to Reed, pride stopping him from admitting that he had forgot to bring his reading glasses.

"Sean?"

"Mmm?"

"How tall is this guy we are looking for?" Reed balanced the file on his knee. A few rogue slips of paper swam down onto the carpet.

"Taller than average. Why?"

"This guy's a fucking midget. Unless you mean taller than your average Oompa Loompa." Reed slammed the file shut and collecting the scraps in his fingers. "Our man is definitely not five three."

Saltzman flipped open the file on his lap. Only three pages were tucked within it. Most of them containing patient details and a medication log. "I think this could be our guy."

"Really?"

"Caucasian male, six foot tall, forty two years old, average build." He fluttered the page between his fingers. "Get your notes out."

Reed fumbled for his notebook.

"Brown eyes, brown hair. Didn't the girl say he was local?"

"Yeah."

"Well this guy's from North East New Jersey. Local enough." Saltzman held the file photograph in the air. "This guy. What's his story?"

Holt reached over, pulling the file and photograph from Saltzman's grasp. He managed to note the faint glimmer of surprise on her face as she absorbed the information. She peeled her way through the lean information. "James Wilson came here about five months ago. He was a model patient, one of the quietest patients we had. That's why his file is so empty."

Reed hesitating a scratch into his hair. "But I thought these guys were all maniacs."

"Agent Reed, these people are not maniacs. They have an affliction that makes them violent and unpredictable. On occasions, dangerous."

"So maniacs?"

Saltzman swung a palm into Reed's stomach. "Will you shut the hell up?"

"Thank you Agent Saltzman. Agent Reed, the reason they are here is for their own safety and for the safety of the public. They are not bad people, nor are they killers. They are victims of this terrible situation, just like you and I. So I wouldn't mind if you would keep your obnoxious point of view to yourself." Holt clasped her hands together, pausing herself in order to regain her composure. "Now where were we?"

"This guy." Saltzman prodded the picture.

"Ah yes. He was quiet. Oddly quiet compared to most of the patients."

"What do you mean 'oddly'?"

"Most patients we have have a file filled with reports of violent behaviour on the wing. James was not one of our new patients by a long shot, but he still had one of the cleanest records. He had only three reports and even those were in self defence from other patients. Our average patient has one or two a week. James had three in five months."

"Did he have any visitors?"

Holt shook her head. "We don't allow visitors. Too risky. We have emergency contact details but apart from that we have nothing."

"Can we have those emergency contacts?"

"I would usually ask for a warrant but I know this is a matter of public safety." Holt whisked the back page from the file. "I'll get this copied for you. Do you need anything else?"

Reed raised a cautious finger. "Do you have his last known address?"

"I'll get that copied for you too." Holt slid the page back into the file and tottered towards the door.

Saltzman turned himself, craning his neck to get the good doctor's attention. "One last question. Why was he put here in the first place?"

Holt cleared her throat, curling a tight grip around the file. "He stabbed a man to death."

.

* * *

.

The security on the border was surprisingly loose. Wilson had expected a line of officers, armed to gills with automatic weapons, but instead there was only a handful of them, every single one of them less intimidating and more portly than the officers he had seen elsewhere.

Norah (Wilson had learned her name during one of her rants about the sky high price of coffee) had elbowed him hard in the side when they approached the security barriers. At first he hadn't twitched, it was only we she poked a bony elbow right into his ribs that his body jerked up in the passenger seat.

"Son. You gotta keep your head now. They'll recognise me but they might not know you. And you aint got any cards." She pointed profusely to the foot well. "Try and stick your head down there. I'll try and distract them with my lovely beehive." She gave a flirty, somewhat unsettling wink and adjusted her hair with her free hand.

Wilson slipped his feet back, bent over and slid his head between his knees. "Is that good enough?" He placed his hands onto the floor to balance his weight, his temperamental back was not having an enjoyable time in this position at all.

"Stick it down further. Can't be too careful." She forced the window down with a few stiff turns of the handle and fetched her cards from the dashboard. They pulled up to security booth three. An overweight man stuck a chubby head from a hole in a grubby, white cube of plastic. A squeal escaped Norah's lips as she turned her back to block anyone getting a view through the driver's window. "Tony! Fancy seeing you here."

"You're back again? Jeez Norah, can't you stay in one place more than five minutes?" Tony chuckled, sending a gentle ripple through his considerable double chin.

"Ah well. Girl's gotta keep on her feet. Don't wanna be one of those old dears who sits alone playing Scrabble." Norah handed over a flimsy blue card bound together with two other slips of paper.

"I play Scrabble on my own."

"That's because you're a lonely man. You're wasted here sitting in that damn booth. You need to get out more."

Tony cast a glance over the card, not even bothering to unfurl the paper. "I don't even know why I bother checking these. And hey, you sound like my mom. A beer and a good game of Scrabble and I'm a happy man. Who needs to go out?" He placed the items back into Norah's grasp and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Get yourself moving. I don't need another person reminding me I'm a lonely bastard."

"You'll always have me."

"And for that I'm grateful. Now come on, I got all these other folks to check."

Norah began to wind the window back up. "I'll see you soon."

"No doubt I will."

The red and white striped barrier lifted as soon as she hitched the gear stick back into drive. Leaving the cards in a disparate collage on the dashboard, she sped off onto the eerily quiet section of the Interstate.

"Okay son. You can come back up now." She patted Wilson on the back.

Wilson slowly rose from his cramped position, his back now sore all the way from the arch to his shoulders. He should have got someone to look at that years ago.

"Now you can't tell anybody about that. I can't have folks after me for letting some guy through without his cards. You never met me, and if you did my name was Bob okay?"

Wilson nodded, a hand circling around the bottom of his back in a feeble attempt to massage away the pulse of pain.

"You seem a bit quiet son. Everything okay?"

How desperately he wanted to spill it all, everything, every last detail, onto this poor, unsuspecting elderly, woman with a haircut straight from the sixties, but for once his head ruled his heart. He shook a weak hand through his hair and crinkled his nose up. "Yeah. Just a rough night that's all."

"I bet it was." She switched on the air conditioning, sending a warm breeze flitting through the front of the car. "Don't worry 'bout it. We aint too far from Princeton now. Won't be too long."

.

* * *

.

Like hell he was going to stay after lunch. He had no case, his ducklings were off doing pointless tests and even more pointless Clinic Duty to satisfy Cuddy's whims, so all he could really do all morning was to mull over what on earth Granite Boy meant by telling him that he wasn't of any use.

Granite Boy had already insinuated that he knew of Wilson's whereabouts so obviously Wilson isn't where he was supposed to be. Not that House knew much of Wilson's whereabouts in the first place. 'Somewhere West of Philadelphia' was about as concise an answer he was ever given from some plummy, uptight nurse on the phone

Could he come and visit? No. Could he be told where Wilson was? No.

No visitors. No phone calls. No nothing.

But at least then he was dealing with concretes. He knew Wilson was somewhere. Somebody knew the 'somewhere' where Wilson was. That knowledge was vague but it was knowledge all the same. That knowledge was now gone, ripped apart and turned on its head. Too many questions. Too little information.

House revved the engine on his motorbike a little louder than usual, before speeding from the parking lot.

Now the main question on his mind was where the fuck Wilson was now.


End file.
